


Fate Might Be Jerking Our Strings, But It's Still Our Destiny

by bees_stories



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Supernatural Elements, drunk!Dean
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-14
Updated: 2015-01-14
Packaged: 2018-03-07 13:30:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,247
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3174968
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bees_stories/pseuds/bees_stories
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Summary: Dean gets drunk and asks awkward questions about the nature of Fate. Castiel decides to ask a few awkward questions of his own and finds his answers in the last place he expects.<br/>A/N: Written for the lj user="tamingthemuse"> prompt #443: Wyrd.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fate Might Be Jerking Our Strings, But It's Still Our Destiny

***

_"Cas!" Dean bellowed in a drunken slur. "I wanna talk to you!"_

Cas could recognize a cry for help when he heard one. He located Dean in a remote part of Wisconsin and went to him. 

Dean was behind the wheel of the Impala, which wasn't unusual. He was also clearly inebriated and in no condition to drive, especially on a winding country road in the rain. The car staggered from one lane to the other and back again as Dean jerked the steering wheel in a surprised reaction to Castiel's arrival. 

"Took you long enough," he said, by way of a greeting. "I needta as' you somethin'. Somethin' important." 

"Maybe you should pull over and let me drive," Cas offered. "You seem … " He hesitated, not really wanting to start a fight about Dean's over reliance on alcohol. "Preoccupied." The car lurched as Dean turned sharply onto a narrow gravel track. Cas grabbed for the door frame for support, and was glad of it, when the front end dipped sharply into a pothole. 

"Sorry, baby." Dean patted the dashboard, and Cas knew that it was the car being apologized to and not him. He tried to ignore the sting of hurt he felt as Dean came to a fork in the road and pulled down an even more crudely cut track.

For several hundred yards Dean concentrated on his driving, peering with bleary eyes out into the rain swept night. Abruptly, he braked the car and took it out of gear. "I've been thinking, Cas," he said over-enunciating each word to emphasize how profound they were. "About death." 

Morbid thoughts were not uncommon with extreme bouts of drunkenness. Nor were they uncommon amongst survivors of tragic events. Given Dean was both drunk and a survivor, a dark turn of mind and contemplation of death was hardly a surprise. Still, it was unusual for Dean to want to open up about his own mortality, and for reasons that weren't entirely clear, even to himself, it was a topic that made Cas uncomfortable. 

"Dean – " Cas reached for the door frame again as Dean jerked the car back into gear again and punched the accelerator. Almost immediately, the car struck another rut. "I know things seem difficult right now – " 

The car swerved, nearly going off the road and into the trees as Dean looked sharply over at Cas, yanking the wheel as he pivoted his entire body to follow his gaze. "Not death, you moron. Death. Skinny guy. Always jonesin' for frie' pickle chips. You know... Death." 

Cas nodded as he switched mental gears. "Right. Death." He regarded Dean curiously. "What about him?"

Abruptly, Dean left the road entirely, following a dirt driveway that was marked by nothing more than a wide break between two venerable oak trees. Much to Cas's relief, it marked the beginning of the end of their short, but harrowing commute. A hundred yards and a sharp turn later, they pulled up in front of a rundown cabin. "Home, sweet, home," Dean announced. He cut the engine and nearly fell as he got out of the car. 

Cas followed, mindful of the broken stairs and the weak spot on the front porch where termites were feasting on the rotting wood. Dean produced a key, but was unable to fit it into the lock.

"Allow me." Cas unlocked the door and stepped out of the way, mindful that, being a Winchester bolthole, the cabin might contain booby traps that only Dean or Sam could spring safely. 

There were runes and sigils on the walls inside, and pistol and a flask of holy water on a small table near the front door. Minimal precautions. The cabin was a temporary shelter, and not a new base of operations. 

"So, Death, he's a guy, right?" Dean said as he flipped on the lights and then flopped down on the sofa. 

Cas frowned. "Death is about as much of a guy as I am. He uses a human avatar – "

"Yeah. Yeah." Dean made a dismissive gesture. "The point is... he exists. He's not justa abstract... whatsit. Concept. He's not an abstract concept. He's real." He pointed at Cas and then at himself. "Like we're real." 

"Okay?" Cas replied, unsure of where the conversation was headed. 

"So what else is out there?" Dean asked. He gestured towards the ceiling. "If there's Death, does that mean there's Life? Hope? Faith?"

Cas tensed and then he frowned as internal alarms began to sound. Dean was headed into dangerous territory. "Why do you ask?" 

Dean's expression became belligerent. "Because if there is sucha thing as Fate, I wanna kickitsass," he slurred before slumping over sideways and passing out entirely.

Cas sighed as Dean began to snore. Then he knelt at Dean's side and removed his boots and gently guided his legs and feet onto the sofa before tucking a pillow under his head. He found a blanket folded at the foot of one of the beds in the next room and tucked its frayed edge around Dean's frame to protect him from the pervasive chill. Finally, he lit the fire, already built in the fireplace, and took a seat in the ancient rocking chair. 

By degrees the room warmed. Dean twitched, and then he cried out. Even in his dreams he was lashing out. Cas edged his chair closer and placed his palm against Dean's brow, chasing away the monsters. He closed his eyes and tried to heal Dean's heartsickness, but the pain ran deep, like an endlessly renewing well. All Cas could do was take away enough to make it bearable, at least until Dean suffered another profound loss. Or another string of little ones that made him question why he bothered to try and he found yet another excuse to lose himself in yet another bottle. 

When he had done all he could do, when Dean's face slackened into a resemblance of true peace, Cas returned to his chair to keep watch, and to contemplate Dean's drunken ramblings. 

_Was there a creature called Fate?_

The answer, the one Dean had passed out before he could hear, was 'yes', there was. Like Death she was old. Very, very, old. She was a force of nature that had become personified when living creatures called upon her. Prayed to her. And finally, by the sheer force of their belief, willed her into existence.

Her name was Wyrd. Or sometimes Fate. Or Destiny. Her nature was so complex that she often appeared as a trio of three sisters, because that was the only way mortals could bear the sight of her. 

She was a being that commanded respect. And got it. Because like all of the very old immortals, Wyrd ran out of patience long ago. She did not suffer fools gladly.

Despite the warmth from the fire, Cas's blood ran cold as he contemplated what Wyrd would do to Dean if he confronted her in a temper. 

Cas's gaze drifted to Dean's sleeping form. He saw a man who for reasons no one could fathom, was at the heart of the battle between Heaven and Hell. He was a man who would do anything to protect his brother and those he considered family, including Cas. Usually, at great personal cost. 

He would, if given half a chance, use all of his skills and every one of his personal resources to track down Wyrd and demand answers. And he would do so in a way that would no doubt give as much offense as possible. Because sharp words would be the only way he could gain some measure of payback for the suffering he had endured. Because Dean was also a man at the end of his rope. 

Not that he was much of a diplomat at the best of times. 

And then Cas was struck by an uncomfortable thought. What if Dean _was_ meant to confront Wyrd? What if he had been put through all the trials that he'd been put through just so that he would be angry enough to look her in the face and call her to account? 

What if the true battle wasn't between angels and demons, Heaven and Hell, but between Fate and Free Will?

It was a staggering thought. Cas found he had a hard time tearing his gaze away from Dean's face as he absorbed its enormity. 

The door rattled. Cas looked up, startled, as Sam entered the room. His face was tired and careworn. His shirt was torn and there was a long cut on his arm. He'd been in a fight. He frowned at Cas. "What's going on?"

Cas shrugged, buying time as he tried to come up with a coherent response. He felt profoundly off balance, as if he'd been pulled out of one reality and thrust without warning into a new one. He cleared his throat. "Dean called me," he replied after several beats. "He was drunk. I stayed to make sure he came to no harm." 

Sam's expression grew resigned and then it became profoundly sad. "It's been really hard. All the hiding out." He gave Cas a tiny smile and it seemed like the small gesture cost him a considerable amount of effort. "Anyway. Thanks." 

Cas got to his feet. "I should go." 

"Cas. Wait." Sam looked over at Dean and then he returned his gaze to Cas's face, making full eye contact for the first time since he'd entered the cabin. "It's going to get better, isn't it?" 

He didn't want to lie. It was clear that Sam needed a shred of hope to hang onto as much as his brother did. Cas didn't have the gift of Sight, but he nodded and smiled and tried to seem as trustworthy as he could, because one thing he had learned living among humans was sometimes a white lie was more comforting than the truth. "Of course it is." 

Cas knew that Sam would next ask, 'Yeah, but when?' which was the one question he couldn't answer with any degree of certainty. He winged out before he was forced to reply, 'I don't know', with the intention of learning that answer for himself.

***

All the stories he'd ever heard about Wyrd suggested she lived on Earth somewhere in a remote location. After questioning numerous informants, both mortal and immortal, and searching both high and low, Cas finally tracked her down at the top of a mountain in Nepal.

Even for an angel it was difficult to look at her for any length of time. Her appearance shifted constantly from an innocent young girl to that of a knowing and wizened old crone. She was busy at her loom, hands flying across an infinite seeming number of threads, feeding them from spindles onto the loom, directing their progress, and snipping, always snipping, those that trailed off at the edges. 

She didn't seem the least bit surprise by Cas's sudden appearance. 

"I've been expecting you, Castiel." 

"Then you know why I'm here." 

The crone spared him a knowing glance. "You're here to learn the answer to the ultimate question of Life, the Universe, and Everything." Wyrd's face blurred and became that of a young woman. "Or more specifically, you want to know if the dog is wagging its tail or the tail is wagging the dog." 

Cas frowned as he tried to make sense of Wyrd's cryptic response. "Yes," he replied uncertainly. 

"I can't do that." A young girl's voice piped out of the throat of a much older woman, creating a mind-bending disconnect. 

"Can't or won't?" Cas asked. He tried to keep his tone respectful, but the longer he was in Wyrd's presence, the more off balance and defensive he felt. 

"Does it matter?" the crone asked. "Either way, you're none the wiser." 

Wyrd's appearance continued to shift as her hands flew over her work. Cas stared, mesmerized by the speed of the transformation. It was an effort to pull his gaze away and focus on his task.

"Even if I did tell you, it wouldn't make a difference. The enemies, the challenges, would just keep coming. You wouldn't lay down your weapons, Castiel. Nor would those you seek to protect. That's who you are. That's who the Winchesters are. In that respect, at least, you determine your own fate." 

Cas felt his frown deepen as he struggled to understand. "So, you're saying … no one's using us?"

Wyrd lifted her hands from the loom long enough to make a tisk, tisk gesture at Cas. "That would be telling, Castiel." The little girl giggled and went back to her weaving. 

The world went dark.

***

When the lights came back on, Cas wasn't in Nepal any more. Instead, he was in New York City, being jostled by pedestrian traffic as it made its way down 42nd Street.

He let himself be propelled while he regained his equilibrium, watching people getting in and out of taxis and streaming into theaters and restaurants. The bright lights dazzled his eyes almost as much as Wyrd's constantly shifting appearance. The flow of people pushed and shoved around him. Eager to get out of their way and regain his bearings, Cas let himself be carried towards the door of a delicatessen. Numbly, he sank down into a booth and let his head fall forward onto his hands, blocking out the bright lights of the big city. 

"What'd ya have, mister?" 

It took Cas a couple of beats to realize that the question was directed at him. He raised his head and looked up into the face of a peroxide blonde waitress. She had a brass name tag on her blouse that said, 'Hello, I'm Mindy' written on it. "Answers would be nice," he replied, before it occurred to him she was attempting to take an order for food.

Mindy shook her head, but in a good-natured sort of way. "Sorry, honey, this ain't the public library." She peered at him more closely. "Say, you do look like you've had a rough day. Tell you what – " She went behind the counter and poured a cup of coffee which she then set in front of Cas. "That's on me." Mindy smiled, and it was filled with the sort of genuine kindness that renewed Cas's hope for the future. "Call it my good deed for the day. You want anything else, you just let me know."

Cas smiled back and toyed with the spoon in the saucer. He inhaled the aroma of the coffee and even went as far as lifting the cup to take an experimental sip. He had confronted Wyrd. He had asked her his question and had come away none the wiser. 

Or was he?

Wyrd had said that events would continue to unfold because that's how things worked. She had also said that he and the Winchesters would continue fighting because it was in their natures to do so. 

Absently, Cas raised the cup again to take another sip of coffee. 

Mindy screamed and pointed out the plate glass window towards the street. 

Just outside, on the sidewalk, a woman fell as a man sprinted away from her holding a handbag. 

Cas reacted. With angelic speed he was out the door. He overtook the mugger and then grabbed him by the front of his jacket, looking down darkly at the leather bag in his hand. "I don't think that belongs to you." 

A police officer came jogging up. Cas shoved the mugger at him. "Do your duty, officer." 

The woman, aided by Mindy, limped up to join them. She began to alternately heap praise on Cas and sling abuse at the man who had stolen her purse. 

A patrol car rolled up to the curb. Cas used the momentary distraction to wing out. With no where else to go, he returned to the quiet of Sam and Dean's hideaway. 

Dean was sitting at the kitchen table. He had a beer and a bowl of chili in front of him, and was ignoring both in favor of the screen of his laptop. He glanced up as Cas's shadow fell over the table. 

"Cas. Hey." 

"Hey."

An uncomfortable silence began to grow. Cas cleared his throat as Dean reached for his beer. At the last second he seemed to think better of it and pulled his hand away, closing the laptop's lid as he did so. "Look, about the other night." 

Castiel wasn't sure exactly how much time had past since he'd tucked Dean in on the sofa and then stood watch over him as he slept. But it seemed it was long enough for Dean to reflect on whatever had sent him towards the edge and maybe even to start to process it into terms he could live with. He shrugged, not wanting to make what had happened into something awkward. "What about it?" he asked as he hoped against hope that Dean had forgotten about his quest to track down Wyrd. 

"I've been doing some reading. Research. Turns out there's a difference between fate and destiny." 

"There is?" Cas asked guardedly. Human concepts often held nuances he didn't understand. Apparently, this was one of them. 

"Yeah. Fate," Dean explained, "is an inevitability. You do something because you have no choice. Destiny, on the other hand, that's when you do something because it's a thing you're meant to do."

Cas felt his face fall into lines of incomprehension. "I don't understand," he said.

Dean blew out a breath. "The point is, Cas, it doesn't matter. None of it matters. If I do something because someone is shoving me in the back or I do it because I chose to do it, it still gets done. At the end of the day I still end up in the same place."

A faint glimmer of hope began to blossom in Cas's chest. "Does this mean you've given up the idea of hunting down Fate?" 

Dean's shrug spoke volumes. "Don't get me wrong, Cas, I'd still like to kick her ass, just on account of I feel jerked around, but even I know when I'd be tilting at a windmill."

Cas let out a relieved sigh. He nodded his head. "Good. That's a good choice." He smiled. "Trust me, Dean, it's one you won't regret." 

Dean peered at him closely. For a long moment, Cas felt like a suspect under interrogation. "What have you been up to for the last couple of days?" His gaze grew even more intense. His brows knitted, his eyes narrowed and his mouth drew into a look of extreme suspicion. "Cas?" 

"I apprehended a mugger in New York," Cas replied. It was, after all the truth. "And I learned that running towards a situation is a reflex too strong to ignore." 

Dean let his gaze linger for a few seconds before he dropped his eyes to the table. He ran his fingertip over the lip of his beer bottle, and then he picked it up and raised it in a salute. "You got that right, buddy." He took a swig and then offered the bottle to Cas. 

Cas nearly declined, but then he looked down into Dean's face and saw a lightness of spirit that had been absent for far too long. He accepted the bottle, and then raised it as Dean had before drinking a mouthful of the bitter and effervescent liquid. He hated the flavor, but relished the moment, relieved that they had survived yet another crisis.

end


End file.
